The Golden Arrow
by Cinaed Born Of Fire
Summary: *AU* In a Middle-earth that is in total chaos and everywhere there is war, the king of Gondor and his unusual companions must find the one with the Ring and survive destroying it. *Slash: A/L*
1. Prologue

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Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is. 

Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture. 

Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.

Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, others undecided. 

Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?

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The Golden Arrow

By Cinaed

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Prologue

The throne room of King Théoden was eerily silent save for the tremulous footfalls of the wounded, gasping warrior who fell to his knees before the throne. His wounds were obvious to the silent onlookers, his attire ripped and blood seeping from the numerous wounds to soak into the plain brown cloth of his clothing. His breaths were raspy and wrenched from his chest, for his mount had finally collapsed a few miles away and he had struggled to run on despite his various lesions. His rasping gasps echoed through the throne room as he struggled to catch his breath, disheveled light brown locks falling in front of his handsome, weary face. Sweat trickled from his forehead, causing streaks like tears on his grimy, dirt–encrusted features. The dirt was everywhere on his frame–in his hair, on his otherwise tanned flesh, staining his plain cotton clothes. 

At last, he gained enough strength to glance upwards at the impassive face of the king of Rohan, and immediately he struggled to speak. When the words finally tore themselves from his parched throat, they were hoarse and pain–filled, revealing the injured man's anguish at the news he brought. 

"Gondor–Gondor has fallen to the Uruk–hai." 

The enormous hall was deathly silent at the dire report as the people of Rohan awaited King Théoden's reaction to the news. 

The king's lined face was aloof, as always, but he moved in his chair to get comfortable, his silk finery rustling at the movement. "What of Gondor's king?" The dry, formal question made the brunet messenger yearn for Gondor once more, where the king would have welcomed him with open arms and ordered healers to tend to his wounds immediately.

The wounded man coughed, a breathless, harsh sound that revealed he hadn't quite caught his breath. "King–King Aragorn and some of his people have escaped the doom of our many kinsmen, and are hiding just within the borders of–of Rohan, milord. We–we wish to live amongst your–your people as a truce while we–we battle for our homeland." 

"And here is my wish, former Prince of Ithilien: that you and your fool of a king finally realize that the land of Gondor, once fallen to the Uruk–hai can never be taken back. The age of Gondor is over, Prince, and you would do well to tell your lord of this." 

The middle–aged king's belittling statement sent a prideful wave of fury running through the blonde's frame, and the close companion of Aragorn lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain as he swayed on his feet. Blinking away the dark spots in his vision, he lifted his ashen face proudly and spoke, his hoarse, loud words echoing through the room. "Gondor, fallen forever? It seems to me, Théoden of Rohan, that you deem sovereign Aragorn an unfit ruler. It seems to me also, good king, that Gondor would not have fallen if the Riders of Rohan had not been ordered by their king to let the Uruk–hai destroy the cities and towns of Gondor!" His furious, rough voice rose, earning a cold look from the king. "We called for aid thrice from Rohan, and did we receive any? Nay, for you told the Riders to not heed our cries for help!"

"Your king' made it clear to me when he ascended to the throne three years ago that he needed no aid from his neighbor Rohan." The remote, superior statement earned a harsh laugh from the messenger, even as the brunet swayed on his feet once more. 

"Milord Aragorn gave no such sign, Théoden of Rohan, and you would do well to retract your words!" 

"I, retract my words? Prince–child, I do think you forget whose kingdom you are in. You are of noble blood, indeed, but of a fallen lineage now that Gondor is vanquished. Here, I am a king." 

"Aye, a king of cowards!" Even as the words were snarled, the messenger crumpled to his knees, his legs giving out once more. Curly locks fell in front of his sweaty, wan visage as he bit his lip, trying to keep from falling stricken at the king's feet. 

"Guards?" The smooth, almost bitter, command obliged three armed men to step forward and kneel before their monarch. "I do believe that our visitor needs to learn his manners. His babe of a ruler has obviously favored him and allowed him to grow disrespectful of his betters. Take him out of my sight and deal with him as you please." The cruel smiles that formed on the trio's faces assured Théoden that the brown–haired messenger would not be alive for very longer. 

"Uncle!" At the single word, both the king and the refugee from Gondor turned their heads towards the person who had spoken. The youth looked briefly stricken at his uncle's harsh gaze, but swallowed and continued speaking, his voice firm even if his frame trembled slightly. "I–I wonder what King Aragorn would think of you treating one of his citizens in such a manner." 

"That is of no concern to you, Éomer," snapped the king, for once letting annoyance slip into his tone. "Gondor has fallen, and Aragorn is now no more than a useless excuse for an exile. He and those left of his citizens will bother me not." 

The brunet's eyes watched the youth carefully. He was only a few years younger than the messenger himself, just beginning to have blond wisps of hair sprout on his chin. His wavy locks of dark gold fell to his shoulders, wild and untamed. Even as the herald watched him, the adolescent looked stubborn though pale. 

"Uncle, I still believe it would do Rohan no good if we killed one of Aragorn's companions. Why not take him as a political prisoner?" the mere lad pointed out, his tone attempting to be reasonable even as the messenger stiffened. 

"Nay, I would rather die!" 

"Then you would truly have no need to fear the survivors of Gondor, for they would not wish to be the cause of this man's death." Éomer continued as if the other man had not spoken, and fell silent, waiting for his uncle's response. Neither kinsman expected another of their clan to speak. 

"Father, I believe that Éomer is wise in his words," the young Prince Theodred commented, earning a startled look from Éomer and an impassive one from his father.

King Théoden was silent for a long moment, brooding on the words of his son and his nephew. At last, he gravely nodded. "Very well, he will be a political prisoner." 

"A political prisoner? How dare you, Théoden of Rohan!" The husky voice was furious as the envoy attempted to surge to his feet, instead managing to position himself so that he was on one knee. He glared with utmost hatred at the king. "I come bearing tidings and hope for a truce, and you imprison me! If there is to be any true treaty of this sort, you must send one of your counselors to King Aragorn's side!" 

The king's tone was quite matter of fact. "No. I shall not give up anyone to your pitiful excuse for a fallen king. You will be my prisoner, and henceforward Rohan will have claim of Aragorn and the rest of his precious Gondorians as vassals." He nodded towards the guards, who seized the messenger by the arms. 

If the Gondorian refugee had not just exhausted himself by running to inform Théoden of Gondor's collapse, he might have been able to take down at least two of the guards despite his weaponless state and their numerous weapons. Unfortunately, every muscle in his weakened frame ached, and so he was powerless to even thrash against the guards' hands. His voice and eyes alone aided him as he was dragged from the throne room, humiliated by the countless scornful eyes that watched him. "Théoden of Rohan, you have just made the largest mistake of your life! I, Faramir of Gondor, swear it so!" When the king smirked in reply, the brunet's frantic eyes fell upon Théoden's son. Desperation and fury tingeing his tone, he added, his eyes boring into Theodred's, "If you had any honor at all, you would send a Rohan warrior to Aragorn's side!" 

It was only Éomer and the messenger who saw the determined glint in Theodred's eyes as the exhausted Gondorian was hauled from the throne room, and it was only Éomer and the herald who stayed silent as the throne room at last erupted into sound, talking about the king's brilliance in ripping away the final vestige of power that Gondor might have had. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

The weary, emotionally drained refugees huddled around various campfires, too exhausted to even murmur about what horrors had befallen their fellow Gondorians. The flames flickered upon their somnolent, wan faces, lighting up the stress lines caused by the last few weeks. Mothers clutched their children to them, and those who had lost kin simply stared into the fire, too tired to weep. 

At one fire sat only two men, their heads bowed with fatigue and half–hidden despair as the sun slipped beneath the mountains. None of the Gondorians noticed the beautiful sunset, alive with crimson, lavender, and cerulean streaks. Why would they? 

"Milord, my brother has not returned from informing Théoden of Gondor's dilemma. It has been several days. Do you think that perhaps the king offered him hospitality before Faramir would return to us?" 

The dark–haired, handsome man who crouched beside the brunet sighed softly, his intense gray eyes gazing into the flames as the shadows of the fire deepened the tension lines on his visage. "Théoden is not that generous, Boromir." 

Now it was the steward's turn to sigh. "I know, milord. It was simply a hopeful thought. Perhaps he is journeying towards us even as we speak." There was still a hopeful note to Boromir's voice, for the steward was desperately seeking any hope to cling to. 

"Perhaps," the other man agreed, not wanting to crush Boromir's spirit. Too many souls had been trodden by the horrific events of the last few days. Strong, slender fingers reached out to push a bowl of stew towards the brunet. "You should eat, Boromir. We shall need all of our strength in case the Uruk–hai or other orcs attack." 

Boromir nodded, mute, and lifted the bowl to his lips. They had been unable to bring utensils along with them. The Gondorians had barely managed to collect a few bowls before they had been forced to flee for their lives. The thought that his companions were now enslaved and his hated foes now crawled over every inch of his beloved Tower made his blood boil, but his frame was otherwise too exhausted to do much else. He drank the tepid stew slowly, his gray eyes watching his king. At last, he spoke, his voice low so that only the man beside him would hear. "You must eat also, Aragorn." 

The king of Gondor shook his head, his ruggedly handsome face still tilted down towards the fire. "I shall eat later, Boromir. Right now, I must think, and eating will only distract me." 

The sound of a horse's hooves striking the earth at a quick–paced, almost frantic speed made Boromir pause before he could say anything to persuade Aragorn to eat. The two looked up, as did countless refugees, most of whom looked slightly fearful. 

With a quick glance to his companion, Aragorn drew his blade and stood, turning in the direction of the approaching horseman. Boromir gripped his horn, which would sound an alarm for the refugees to flee should the rider be a sentry coming to warn of an impending attack. 

Instead, the young man who rode up on a pure white mare made Aragorn and Boromir stare in shock. 

"Prince Theodred?" Both Gondorians gazed in astonishment at the dark–haired prince, who gazed seriously back at them. 

"King Aragorn, Steward Boromir, I bring sorrowful tidings." Boromir paled at the greeting, but Theodred continued. "My father, against my wishes, has taken Prince Faramir as a political prisoner in an attempt to control you and your people. Prince Faramir, however, appealed to my sense of honor, and so I have come here to offer myself as a political hostage." A wry smile flickered on the prince's handsome face. "We shall be at a stalemate. Are those terms acceptable to you? My cousin Éomer will make certain that Prince Faramir will not be mistreated, and your honorable actions are well known, King Aragorn. I would be honored to help you take back Gondor." 

As Boromir attempted to digest the news that his brother was now a prisoner in the court of Théoden, Aragorn locked eyes with the Rohan king's heir, and softly smiled before nodding and sheathing his sword. 

"Prince Theodred, you are welcome to share my campfire. Please, make yourself at home." 

(To be continued) 


	2. Chapter One

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Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is. 

Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture. 

Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.

Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, Theodred/Boromir. 

Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?

Thanks: GoldenRose, melly–chan, **tenshiamanda****, melodie, Faile, danto, and ****Earendil–Baby**** for reviewing. **

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The Golden Arrow

By Cinaed

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Chapter One

– Five years later – 

The forests of Mirkwood were covered with a golden halo, the sun's warmth spreading across the woodland and lightening the hearts of all who resided within the forests once known as Greenwood. One of the inhabitants of Mirkwood, alone in his contemplations, tilted his face towards the sky as he stood within a clearing, the golden rays filtering through the trees. 

The beams caressed that silky, flawless neck of alabaster, sensual in the way the sunlight fell against that sleek flesh and clarified that perfect visage for anyone who might have been watching. Warmth embraced his face and neck, earning a lovely, pleasant smile from the denizen. Even the golden beams could not match the color of the youth's braided locks, which were an ideal hue of pale blond, almost white. 

Then the serenity of Mirkwood was destroyed by the faint sounds of desperate cries which drifted to the denizen's ears. The pointed ears twitched a little as the elf's excellent hearing caught the plaintive cries that meant someone was in trouble. 

Without even thinking of the consequences, the elf snatched his bow and his quiver in a single, fluid motion and loped in the direction the discordant sounds came from. Mirkwood would be kept pleasant on his watch, despite the numerous wars that plagued Middle–Earth. 

As swiftly as the blond elf sprinted, his hurried rush was nevertheless silent and nimble, like a graceful dancer leaping upon clouds. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he hastened in the direction of the shouts. 

He stopped elegantly just before he would have entered the clearing, his ancient eyes flickering around and easily learning of what had caused the ruckus. Two little children, clutching broken swords, were surrounded by a pack of slave–traders. The entire group was human, much to the elf's displeasure. 

Wordlessly, the elf notched an arrow to his bow and listened intently to the harsh words of men, speaking in Common. 

"We shall have the Ring." The demanding words of one of the men, slave–traders by their garments, made the elf's blood run cold and an odd weariness fill him, chilling him to the marrow. The immortal was unused to weakness, and shifted uncomfortably, aiming the arrow at the man who had spoken. The way the slave–trader had spoken, there seemed to be an automatic power to the simple word. 

Was the man speaking of the Ruling Ring that all elves were sworn to help destroy, now here in the hands of babes? The elf could still remember the pain in Elrond's eyes when the elven lord had been requested to tell how the Elves had almost had the Ruling Ring to annihilate it, and how the Elves had lost it to a thief so many years ago. 

One of the children, his grimy face defiant, shook his head. "Nay, you will not have it!" The fierce possessiveness surprised the elf, but he kept his aim steady, wondering if the child had been won over by the Ring. "This ring is my only memory of my uncle, and I shall not let you take it from me!" 

Of course the child wouldn't know what the Ruling Ring was, which made it all too easy for the Ring to control the ignorant boy. To children, Sauron and his Ring were simply mythical things to terrorize them into obeying their parents. The elf continued to listen, his arrow aimed at one of the slave–traders' throat. 

"We shall have It! You filthy hobbit, I shall have It as mine, and I shall rule all of Middle–Earth!" The slave--trader who had spoken before seemed to be the one most under the Ring's spell, his eyes filled with dangerous longing as he gazed at the tiny golden ring that hung around the child's neck on a plain gold chain. 

"You mean _/we/ _shall have the Ring," corrected one of the other slavers, his tone surprisingly mild. "And that _/we/ _shall rule all of Middle–Earth." His eyes were focused on the Ring, but there were odd emotions in his gaze along with a glint of almost fear. 

The leader shot the other man a contemptuous look, and immediately the rest of the slavers bristled, glaring at their so–called leader. 

The loudmouthed slaver shook his head, and gestured towards the children, his tone astonishingly gentle. "Look, little ones, you do not want that burden upon you. The Ring is evil, and it will corrupt you." 

"I do not understand what you say, and I do not care what you say. This ring belonged to Uncle Bilbo, and I shall keep it for as long as I live!" 

With a low, incensed growl, the leader lunged at the child, his eager fingers clawing for the ring. The man was deaf to the loudmouthed slaver's shouts, or the other child's screams of rage and fear. 

Noiselessly, the elven archer drew back his bow, aimed, and fired. At last, there was a noise from the elf: the sound of an arrow whistling through the air, and then the sickening thud of the arrow piercing the attacker's throat. The leader of the slavers gurgled only once before he crumpled to his knees, releasing the simple gold chain and falling face–first at the child's stunned feet. 

"Mae govannen." * The grim statement was offered to the children who gazed at him with shock and fear on their grimy, exhausted faces as the elf stepped into the clearing and forgot to speak in Common. 

The slavers stared for a long moment, before the group split into three groups. One group consisted of eleven slave–traders roaring and attempting to rush the elf. Another group, the majority, wheeled and fled, knowing it was no good to fight an elf. The final group consisted of only one– the kind–hearted slaver, who simply stood there, held his hands up to show he had no weapon, and then waited for this episode to end. 

The incident was over in a matter of seconds. With smooth, deadly precision, the elven archer fired arrow after arrow, catching every slave–trader in the throat or other vital area. Soon the clearing was filled dying, groaning men. 

The blonde ignored them, raising an elegant eyebrow towards the two trembling children and the lone slave–trader. When he spoke again, he remembered to speak in Common, and his clear, powerful words rang out through the woods in a way that only an elf's voice could. "Why have you ventured into Mirkwood? This is no place for slave–traders, or children of Men." 

"Begging your pardon, Master Elf, but we–" The child who didn't carry the Ring motioned towards the other boy and himself, his face anxious. "–here were fleeing the slave–traders who were after us." 

"And we're not men," added the Ring–bearer, his tone slightly stubborn. "We're hobbits." 

"Hobbits?" The foreign word almost faltered on the elf's lips, but no elf ever spoke with a stutter, and his clear voice held instead mild bewilderment. 

"Some call us halflings, Master Elf." The one without the Ring was extremely polite, and even bowed towards the immortal. His honest eyes flickered towards his hobbit companion, and he added quickly, a desperate note to his hurried words, "We've–we've been accused of killing our late master, but it wasn't us, Master Elf! A dark rider–" 

"A dark rider?" The lone slave–trader had at last spoken, and now his eyes blazed with a foreign emotion that none of the group could identify. "With a black hood covering his face, riding a horse of darkest night?" 

"Aye, that's who killed him," exclaimed the talkative hobbit, his eyes wide with astonishment. "How'd you know?" 

The slave–trader looked bleak and exhausted, and the elf found himself wondering why this man had not lunged and snatched at the Ring or fled to somewhere safe. "I have met the Nine Riders of Sauron before, though that incident was a long time ago. He killed your master for the ring your friend carries." 

The round–faced hobbit turned towards his companion and whispered something that the elf's ears easily caught. "Mister Frodo, what should we do?" 

However, the other hobbit's expression was seemingly preoccupied as if he gazed at something he couldn't quite see. His intense blue eyes were unfocused, staring beyond the clearing at nothing in particular. 

"Mister Frodo?" The round–faced hobbit shuffled awkwardly before he raised his voice a little, staring anxiously at his friend's face.

At last, the halfling called Frodo blinked, expression filling his countenance and focus strengthening his eyes as those cerulean orbs fell upon his companion. "Uncle Bilbo told me a story of Sauron once. It wasn't a happy tale." 

"Aye, no story of Sauron is," the blond elf commented, still gazing warily at the final slave–trader. He paused, and his sapphire gaze held the talkative hobbit in a wondering spell. "What are hobbits?" 

"Well, we are the little people, Master Elf," matter–of–factly replied the round–faced hobbit. "We grow to about half of Men's heights, and we've been enslaved by them for the past few years." His lovely green eyes looked pleading. "You won't send us back, Master Elf? They'll split us up for sure, and I have to take care of Mister Frodo." 

The elf straightened and tossed his head, looking scornful at the thought. "Send you back to our enemy, little one? I shall do no such thing, especially not back into slavery! Come, hobbits, let me show you the realm of Mirkwood." 

"Wait." The sudden command from the slave–trader earned a dark look from the blonde, a nervous one from the trusting hobbit, and a startled one from Frodo. His calm eyes focused on Frodo and the elf. "Do you mean to tell me that you are going to ignore the fact that you, an elf, have the Ruling Ring have in your grasp and you are not going to do anything about it?" 

The blonde's sapphire eyes gleamed almost feral–like in that porcelain face before the elf replied, his tone mocking once more. "What would you have me do? Take It as my own and let It lead me to my certain doom as the power corrupts me?" Even as he spoke, an odd tugging began in his chest that urged him to take the Ring. After all, he was an elf. Surely he could take it to Elrond and learn how to destroy the vile thing. Surely he could waylay its power and become a mighty name among the elves. 

The elf shuddered, a single, violent convulsion that racked his frame. This man was a trickster, some servant of Sauron who attempted to use the Ring's power to turn him to do evil. He was of royal elven blood! He would not be tricked so easily! 

"I shall take Mister Frodo and his companion to Lord Elrond of Imladris. He will know what to do with the Ring. He will know how to destroy it." Sapphire was hidden from view as the immortal closed his eyes, as though to ward off the Ring's power of influence. "You, however, are a mortal man and must leave this realm. Now." 

"Am I a mortal man, Master Elf?" The slave–trader's tone had shifted to a musing quality. "I suppose I am, in a way, and yet not at all in another aspect." 

"What do you mean by that?" All three of the man's companions demanded of him, and a small, ironic smile played with those lips that seemed prone to being curved upwards with laughter. 

Then the slave–trader straightened, and seemed to grow taller before the group's eyes. His long, dark locks became frizzled and gray, and his youthful visage shifted into a weathered, lined face that had seen more years than even the elf who stood before him. A long, wondrous beard flowed from his chin, as gray and untamed as his wavy locks. His eyes alone did not change; they were the same dark brown that held an ancient knowledge, a wondrous and yet despairing knowledge. His attire was now a gray robe and an odd, ragged hat that flopped a little as if too tired to point straight up to the sky. His enormous, lanky frame towered over the group, but his smile was even more benign than before. "Not one of you recognize me, for I have not traveled this way for a long while. Elf of Mirkwood, you were but an infant when I last wandered with the gay elves amid these woods. I am one of the ones who came before, and perhaps will someday be allowed to rest." 

His voice changed, and took on a powerful, severe tone. "I am one of the ones who will end these foolish squabbles between Elf and Men, Dwarf and Elf, and Men against Men. I am more powerful than any of you can ever imagine, and yet the Ring the young Frodo carries would corrupt even I. I am one of the ones who will go forth and destroy the Ring!" 

"Who–who are you?" There was the faintest hint of fear in the blond elf's words, for although he had lived three thousand years, he was still very much an innocent, and had forgotten that elves were supposed to hide their negative emotions behind smiling, laughing features. 

Those brown eyes regarded him, and the young elf felt very, very small. When the gray–haired man spoke once more, his voice was almost gentle, but commanding at the same time. "I am called Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer, friend of all Free People–" His eyes flickered to the hobbits and he added, "–and some Enslaved People. I am called Tharkûn by the dwarves, and–" Again, he faltered, at that point he seemed almost weary. "And in the West that is forgotten, I was Olorin." 

He fell silent, and bowed his head for a long moment as if drawing strength. At length, he murmured, "I prefer, however, to be called Gandalf the Grey at this time." 

The silence that ensued filled the forest, but it was not the serenity that the elf had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was an unsettling silence that made the immortal think far too much of what might happen should Mirkwood refuse the advice of the mythical Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer who had disappeared so many millennia ago. 

"Well, Master Gandalf, I think it would be an interesting tale to hear how you happened to acquire all those names, but Mister Frodo hasn't eaten in a few days, and we were hoping the elf would be kind enough to give us a meal or two." 

Gandalf's keen gaze fell upon the stout–hearted hobbit, and he smiled broadly, a grin that transformed him into something undeniably human and brilliant. "If the Master Elf would be kind enough, I should like to see my old friend Thranduil once more." 

The blond elf bowed in a graceful motion and offered the group a fleeting smile, not half as merry as he had been only a few moments before. His clear, tenor tones rang through the forest, gathering the strength he had gained. "Mithrandir, King Thranduil would be delighted to welcome you into his halls, and it is indeed an honor that I, his youngest son, would be the one to escort you there." 

"You're a prince?" The startled exclamation escaped the green–eyed halfling before he could help himself, but the blonde softly smiled. 

"Aye, little one, I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil. Welcome to Mirkwood." 

The sandy–haired hobbit bowed clumsily once more, and the other hobbit followed suit. "This is Frodo Baggins, Master Elf–I mean Prince Legolas–and I am Samwise Gamgee, otherwise known as simply Sam." 

Warm, honest green eyes the color of pale leaves in springtime met searching, pensive blue eyes the color of cold spring water as it splashed gleefully against the pebbles. Slowly, the hobbit and the elf measured one another, leaving Gandalf and Frodo on the outside. 

Behind the sincere green eyes, Sam thought to himself, Well, look at that, Samwise Gamgee, you've actually met an elf, and a princely one at that! However, I thought elves were supposed to be merry and mirthful, and this one seems almost sad. I wonder why he is so disheartened!' 

Behind the thoughtful blue eyes, Legolas mused silently, Well, to think that fables of the merry people called halflings were true! No elf of Mirkwood has ever met a hobbit. However, I thought halflings were a joyous folk who were as gentle as any herbivore that wandered our forests and as gay as any unburdened elf. I wonder why he is so grim and protective!' 

It was the start of a beginning. Or rather, it was the continuation of a dark tale not yet finished, a story of woe and death. Still, the actual account of Frodo the Ring–bearer and his companions began on that lovely evening, when two hobbits, an elf, and an ancient Istari met. 

(To be continued

Author's Notes: Mae govannen means Well met.' Legolas was being sarcastic. Please remember to read and review!

Preludes: In the next chapter, we learn what has happened to the Gondorians and Rohirrim in the past five years, and how the hobbits came to be enslaved by Men, and what other evil works the Ring has unleashed upon the world. ~Cinaed) 


	3. Chapter Two

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Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is. Boromir's comments about his dream were taken from the book. 

Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture. 

Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.

Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, Theodred/Boromir, Imrahil/Hirgon. 

Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?

Thanks: **Earendilstar****, tenshiamanda, Faile, GoldenRose, Azure Blood,** **Jessica,** **and Stormraider for reviewing. **

Authors Notes: Well, I have a feeling there will be more pairings added onto this fic, but you'll just have to wait and see who they are. Any suggestions would be appreciated though. Upon rereading FOTR, I have edited the prologue and the first two chapters. I hope this chapter clears up a bit of the confusion. 

~Cinaed) 

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The Golden Arrow

By Cinaed

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Chapter Two

The evening air was both cool and harsh, whipping at the group of warriors who hunted a certain dangerous prey. Despite the bitter truce between the survivors of Gondor and the people of Rohan, King Aragorn and his fighters hunted the foes they knew to be totally against them: the orcs and any Uruk–hai that ventured into Rohan. 

Aragorn knelt in the dust of the beaten trail, his fingers pressing against the imprint of a tiny footprint as a slight frown brought out the lines in his face. "I know not what sort of creature has this type of footprint. In truth, it looks like a human child's," he murmured to his companions, a faint note of bewilderment in his voice. "I daresay it is no orc imprint." 

"Is it a goblin's?" quietly suggested one of his men, but the king shook his head once more, looking grave and bewildered. 

"I don't believe so, Beregond." A shadow passed over the Gondorian monarch's face for a moment before he rose from his crouch, looking determined. "No matter the manner of creature this footprint belongs to, we shall continue to hunt the orcs. Now, let us pursue the cursed creatures!" 

He mounted Roheryn, and cast an approving glance upon his warriors as they hastened to follow suit. They were travel–worn and world–weary, but prepared to fight and destroy the vile creatures that had invaded their homeland and enslaved their people. Every one of them held his weapon in readiness as Aragorn urged his steed forward in the direction that the orcs had fled. The group was known as the Gondorian Horsemen though there were Rohirrim in their midst. 

By the looks of it, the Gondorian Horsemen were only a few hours behind the orc–band. They would easily be able to take the orcs by surprise during the night, which was exactly what Aragorn planned to do. 

So forward the horsemen galloped, down the beaten path and through the thick vegetation of the forests that engulfed them. Their eyes remained focused ahead, intent on their goal. Soon the battle would begin, and the slaying of countless orcs would commence. It would be an impressive night! 

-*-*-*-*-*-

It was nearing midnight when they struck. Humming filled the air as countless arrows were fired. Soon screams of agony and shock filled the campsite as the orcs learned the hard way that they were being attacked. Many fell to the arrows from Aragorn's bowmen, but any who tried to flee found themselves skewered upon one of the javelins or blades of the Gondorians. Occasionally an orc would strike a horseman down, but that fallen man was quickly avenged, and soon the clearing was filled with dead or dying orcs. The forest filled with the stench of orc–sweat and blood, but the human warriors ignored the horrible odors for the moment. 

Suddenly, in the midst of battle, Aragorn heard an astonished cry, and turned his eyes towards the bellower just in time to see Beregond plunge headlong into the last group of living orcs, his pike jabbing frantically into one before he disappeared from view. 

"Beregond!" The shocked yell was wrenched from the king's throat as he rushed after the fellow Gondorian. His sword flickered in the flames of the orcs' torches as he stabbed and shoved the blade into the vital areas of many orcs in a vain attempt to follow the loyal soldier. What in Middle–Earth had possessed Beregond so? 

He heard many of his soldiers rally and charge forth upon the luckless orcs, their battle cries filling the night air. "For Beregond!" a number of them yelled while the rest roared, "To the king!" 

Within a few minutes the battle was over, and all the orcs had been slain. 

Aragorn nearly staggered as victory cries filled the former campsite, his exhaustion obvious as sweat trickled down his face. Every muscle on his lean, powerful frame ached from exertion, and dark blood stained his plain clothes from minor wounds. Still, he held his blood–spattered sword in shaking hands and looked for one of his most stalwart soldiers. Had Beregond survived his foolhardy venture? 

"My liege?" The soft call barely reached his ears. With an effort, the king turned his head. There was Boromir, looking bleak as blood trickled from a shallow cut on his cheek. "We've found him." 

"Take me there!" The automatic demand was commanding and didn't betray the trembling that had begun in his knees. Even if he lost a few men at every battle, Beregond had been a closer friend than most, and to die on a seemingly suicidal mission would have been a crushing blow to his young son. 

Aragorn leaned heavily on Boromir's shoulder as the two friends limped towards where the two soldiers had found Beregond. The trembling in his knees was replaced by a pain in his chest as he saw the crown of dark brown locks streaked with only a sprinkle of gray. The rest of the man's frame was covered by two orc carcasses. 

"Why hasn't anyone taken the orcs and burned them?" Boromir's voice was harsh and filled with anguish, and his grip on his king's other shoulder tightened momentarily before he controlled himself. The two soldiers hastily removed the carcasses, but it was Boromir's keen gaze that saw the odd sight first, and it was he who let out a startled gasp. 

"What is this?" he cried out, leaving Aragorn's side in a bound and kneeling beside Beregond. A young boy who had to have been younger than seven lay stretched out beneath the soldier's motionless body. His hands were stretched above his head and chained to a pole. It seemed as if Beregond had seen the captured youth and attempted to rescue him, but had been struck down before he could free boy. 

Unsheathing his sword, Aragorn strode forward and brought the blade whistling down. The sword bit through the rusted iron, and the child's tiny hands were free. 

As soon as the blade came whistling down, Boromir pulled Beregond into his arms and turned his fellow soldier so that his face was towards at sky. At the motion, the second–in–command cried out again. There was still color in Beregond's muddy face! The body stirred and the older Gondorian softly gasped before sinking deeper into unconsciousness. One look at his frame explained why he had lain as if lifeless: many cuts had torn his shirt to shreds, and an orc's knife had buried itself deep into his left shoulder. 

"The boy lives as well," Aragorn exclaimed suddenly, kneeling also as he sheathed his sword once more. His keen gray eyes had observed the timid rise and fall of the young boy's chest. A warm, roughened hand pressed to the child's delicate cheek made the boy flinch even if still inert. Someone holding a torch closer to him revealed what was wrong: an ugly bruise was beginning to form on the right side of his pale face. 

A sharp command from Aragorn made healers scurry to his side, and the young child and Beregond were quickly taken care of as the flickering torch lights revealed their injuries to the skillful men. Wounds were washed and bandaged, and soon the duo lay resting peacefully on blankets as Boromir and Aragorn watched over them. 

"How did a child come to be in an orc band's campsite?" Boromir murmured softly, glancing down at the young boy and frowning in bewilderment. His baffled gaze studied the youth's dreaming visage, taking in the wavy, messy locks of wavy brown fell around the slightly ashen face. A long, bony nose separated his closed eyes and led downwards to thin, rose pink lips. All in all, the boy looked no older than eight or nine, a little younger than Beregond's son. 

"Perhaps he was captured to be their slave," suggested Aragorn in a grim tone. 

"Or their next meal," muttered one of the soldiers nearby, having overheard their discussion. 

Aragorn sighed, knowing the truth of the man's words. At length, he spoke, his husky voice rising above the crackling flames as the orcs' bodies were burned. "When we have burned all the bodies, we shall find a place to rest. We will bury our fallen comrades tomorrow morning." Without even being told of the number, he knew that at least a handful of the band had fallen to the orcs. 

"Seven men were slain, King Aragorn." A grim statement from a familiar brunet made the king wince briefly, feeling each man's death a blow to his heart. "Four Rohirrim and three Gondorians." Theodred's dark eyes betrayed his own pain at the death of his countrymen, for they had joined the Gondorian Horsemen because of their loyalty to him. 

"Hirgon, in the morning after we've buried our comrades, I will need you to ride to Edoras to tell King Theoden of the four Rohirrim's valiant deaths." 

The errand–messenger nodded in acknowledgement to his sovereign's order, his face just as smudged and wan as the rest of the Gondorian Horsemen. "Shall I give any news to Prince Faramir, milord?" 

Boromir spoke before Aragorn could, and his tone was gentle upon the thought of his brother. "Tell him that we trust he is in excellent health, and that we miss his war songs, Hirgon." 

"Aye, sir, I'll do that." The errand–messenger bowed to both the steward and the king before vanishing in the direction of where they burned the orcs. 

A glance from his sovereign made Boromir duck his head to hide a fleeting smile. "If anyone asks, milord, you were the one who said that we miss his war songs," he stated, earning a wry smile from the gray–eyed swordsman. How many times during their youth had Boromir moaned at Faramir's songs and called them useless for a warrior? 

"Of course I was the one to say that," agreed Aragorn, the dry smile lingering on his lips. 

The two friends grinned at their inside joke, and their smiles loitered upon their mouths even after the orcs had been burned to ashes and after they had moved the unconscious man and child to a different campsite. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

It was dawn when Aragorn woke from his brief doze, his sleep–blurred vision immediately seeking out his dearest companion. Boromir had seemingly also just awoken, for he was rubbing his face as if to ward off further dreams. The steward's face was troubled, but he managed a quick smile when he noticed Aragorn's gaze. 

"Did I wake you?" The soft inquiry drifted to the king's ears over the sound of crackling fires. The Gondorian Horsemen had traveled enough in secret to know which logs caused smoke or not. 

Aragorn shook his head, the oily locks of dark brown whipping around his tanned visage at the movement. "Nay, I woke up because of the sun," he murmured back, raising himself to a sitting position to wave a hand at the sunrise. 

Boromir's eyes followed the gesture, and he gazed at the first light for a long moment. "Faramir would probably be spouting off a line of poetry if he had been here to see the sunrise," he sighed after that instant. His longing to see his brother's face once more was obvious. 

"Despite the fact that it wasn't wholly his choice, we know that Faramir is honored to be helping in keeping the peace between Gondor and Rohan, Boromir. How many times has he assured you of that fact in Hirgon's messages?" 

"And how many times have we both known that he is only trying to assuage my fears?" The response was almost a snap, but not quite as the steward ran a trembling hand through his straight, golden–brown mane. 

"He has at least one friend in Edoras," Aragorn pointed out, ignoring his friend's tone. 

"Aye, but Éomer is often abroad, fighting the orcs that slip into Rohan more and more with each passing month." 

"There are enough people loyal to Éomer in Edoras not to let anything happen to your brother, Boromir," stated a quiet, firm voice, and Theodred crouched beside the two men, his face serious. "And my father is too focused upon revenge against the orcs to bother with tormenting your brother." There was an odd weariness in the prince's voice, but both Boromir and Aragorn understood. 

"Perhaps Hirgon will come back with news that your cousin is much herself again, Prince," suggested the steward, his tone kind as he focused upon the prince's pain instead of his own. 

Theodred sighed. "After being tortured by the Uruk–hai, I doubt Eowyn will ever be herself, but I thank you for your kindness." He paused, and then asked, "How fares Lord Imrahil in Rivendell?" 

The former Prince of Dom Amroth had gone to reside at Rivendell four years earlier, as a part of the treaty between Gondor and the elves. In return, Elf–lord Elrond promised to send aid to Aragorn and the Gondorian Horsemen in their time of greatest need. 

"As far as we know, he is well and is learning much of the elven living," Aragorn replied. "He has not sent a letter to us in three months." 

"Aye, and Hirgon has even offered to ride to Rivendell to check on him," added Boromir, a small smile of secret knowledge flickering upon his lips. "Just to make certain he hasn't fallen ill.'" 

"As if anyone could get sick while residing in a place of elves!" Theodred exclaimed, not getting the inside joke between the steward and the errand–messenger. It was only when Boromir chuckled that the prince realized he had been teasing him, and reluctantly grinned. "Well, I will rouse the men and get a hunting expedition ready to find our breakfast." 

As the prince rose from his crouch and moved off to awaken the other Gondorian Horsemen, Aragorn gazed intently at Boromir, attempting to figure out the joke. After a moment, recognition flared in those gray eyes, and he smiled. "I had hoped Imrahil would find someone to heal his heart after the Uruk–hai killed his wife and young daughter." 

"Aye, so had I, and if Hirgon was not such an excellent messenger, I would have suggested to you sooner that he be allowed to reside with Imrahil in Rivendell." 

"Perhaps in a year or so we'll train another messenger and be able to release Hirgon to Imrahil's side," suggested Aragorn thoughtfully, turning his eyes upon the bodies of Beregond and the rescued child. He gave a start, for the youth's eyes were wide open and gazing towards the sky. 

The boy's eyes were a sharp green that seemed almost grayish in their dark shade. For a second Aragorn stared, thinking that the lad had died and his eyes had opened during death, but then he saw the steady rise and fall of the child's chest. 

"What are you thinking about, lad?" The king's gentle inquiry earned a blink from the child, and then he propped himself upright with one elbow, wincing slightly before turning his green gaze upon the sovereign. 

After a moment of contemplation, those green eyes brightened and turned almost merry. "Well, good sir, I was trying to decide whether being eaten by orcs or being enslaved once more was the better fate." His voice was a clear, high quality, almost a soprano that had not been broken yet by age. 

"Enslaved again?" Boromir repeated the two words, his tone puzzled. 

Those green eyes focused upon the steward and widened in surprise. Slender eyebrows rose to disappear behind his wavy, messy tendrils. "You–you mean you didn't see–and I, I just gave myself away?" There was absolute horror in that high voice, and something akin to despair. "Oh, I'm a fool of a Took indeed!" 

"Boy, what are you talking about?" Boromir's voice was just as gentle as Aragorn's had been, and he moved to kneel beside the now–trembling young boy. "Beregond rescued you from the orcs during the battle, and we've been waiting for the two of you to wake up ever since." 

"Beregond? You mean the kind fellow who killed the orc who was–was going to–and then another orc came up from behind and–and–" The lad pushed himself into a sitting position and gazed wildly around him until his eyes fell upon Beregond, who lay trembling beside him. A look of relief formed on his bruised face, and immediately he winced. 

"His name is Beregond of Gondor, and he has a young son a little older than you, by the looks of it," Aragorn murmured softly, attempting to calm the distraught boy. "People call me Strider, and my companion is Boromir. You're in the company of the Gondorian Horsemen." 

"Aye and I'd like to know who would enslave a human!" added Boromir, a dark note in his tone. "I'd like to have a talk with that fool." 

"Well, that fool' is dead, and he wasn't enough of a fool to enslave one of his own kind," declared the young boy, his own expression one of misery. 

While Boromir continued to look bewildered, Aragorn's facial expression shifted to one of shock and understanding. "Oh." The word was almost whispered as the king's eyes betrayed his sorrow for the quivering, injured boy, suddenly comprehending his fear and anguish. "You're a halfling."

How many years had it been since the people of the lands known as Eriador had begun to enslave the halflings of a place called Shire? Ten years, Aragorn decided at last as he watched the youth in sympathy. When he and the others of Gondor had learned of the enslavement of the little people, they had been outraged but had done nothing. Now the king felt a deep pang of regret. 

The halfling's dark green eyes glimmered with unshed tears but he nodded and mumbled, his throat tight with despair, "I'm Peregrin Took, and begging your pardon, sir, but we call ourselves hobbits." 

Aragorn reached out and gently grasped the hobbit's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Fear not, Peregrin Took. We are Gondorians, and none of us look upon slavery with favor. You will be a free hobbit amidst our company." 

The green–eyed halfling opened his mouth to respond, looking almost painfully hopeful, when a soft, dreamy voice interrupted him. The sing–song words came from Boromir, whose gray eyes had suddenly gone vacant. 

__

// "Seek for the Sword that was broken: 

In Imladris it dwells; 

There shall be counsels taken 

Stronger than Morgul–spells. 

There shall be shown a token 

That Doom is near at hand, 

For Isildur's Bane shall waken, 

And the Halfling forth shall stand." //

As hobbit and king gazed upon the steward in wonder, Boromir's tone remained dreamy. "I have had a dream of late that has troubled me though I have not spoken of it to even you, my dearest friend. In the dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of that light a remote but clear voice cried that riddle to me." 

"What is Isildur's Bane, and where is Imladris?" cried Peregrin Took in a mixture of fearfulness and astonishment. 

At the hobbit's cry, the vacant look fled from Boromir's eyes, and the steward closed them, struggling to be rid of the odd weariness that filled his bones. 

"Imladris is what the elves call the Last Homely House East of the Sea. We men call it Rivendell," Aragorn explained, glancing at Boromir with concern as the steward sighed deeply. 

"But what is Isildur's Bane?" repeated Peregrin, his eyes flickering between the two men. 

"Of that I do not know, for the first thing that springs to mind is Sauron himself." The king's words were grim, and beside him Boromir shuddered slightly at the thought. 

"Who is Sauron?" 

The innocent question made Boromir and Aragorn look upon the hobbit with shock, and a timid smile formed on his lips at their surprised looks. 

"We should not speak of the Dark Lord so often at one time, especially after killing so many of his minions. Perhaps in a safer place I shall be able to tell you more of him," Aragorn commented, his eyes flickering around the campsite as the soldiers shuffled around, preparing for the morning meal as Theodred's hunting party returned with numerous slain stags and hares. 

As Peregrin looked disappointed at the evasion, Beregond softly groaned beside him. The trio turned towards the stirring man, and the hobbit momentarily forgot about his question. 

Even as Beregond opened his eyes and asked in a voice slurred with speech, "Did we slay them all?" Aragorn leaned back and cast a glance over the busy campsite. 

It was time to head to Rivendell. 

(To be continued 

Preludes: In the next chapter, Legolas, Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam are entertained in Mirkwood. Thranduil and Gandalf decide upon what to do with the Ring, and there will be more about the wars that plague Middle–Earth. ~Cinaed)


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is.  
  
Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle-Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture.  
  
Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.  
  
Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, Theodred/Boromir, Imrahil/Hirgon.  
  
Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?  
  
Thanks: Ice Demon, Earendilstar, GoldenRose, Abigail da Jedi, Scarlet, Jedi Master Calriel, and Stormraider for reviewing.  
  
Author's Notes: *giggles* Oh, I was wondering when someone would ask about Merry. *attempts an innocent look* You all will see... *snickers* Sorry for taking so long with the latest chapter. I had major writer's block. Oh, and anything said between the ** symbols is spoke in Sindarin but written as English because I'm not a Sindarin scholar. ~Cinaed  
  
The Golden Arrow  
  
By Cinaed  
  
Chapter Three  
  
His azure gaze broke away from Sam's after a long, pensive moment, and the blond elf glanced down at the dead slave-traders, disdain curling his lips into an expression of intense dislike. How Legolas loathed humans!  
  
"Before I take you to my father, I must have these bodies taken away. Please, wait here."  
  
Without another word, Legolas bounded from the clearing, his voice lifting up in a high, lilting melody that informed any Mirkwood elf within hearing distance of the brief battle that had just taken place and of the fact that he needed help in ridding the slain filth from their precious forest.  
  
As Sam smiled in oblivious delight at the sound of the elf singing, Frodo turned his gaze upon the wizard called Gandalf. His intense blue eyes studied the ancient Istari for a long moment before the solemn hobbit spoke.  
  
"So this is the Ring of Sauron?" His voice trembled slightly on the final word, and Gandalf looked grim.  
  
"Aye, it is the Ruling Ring, young Frodo. I can only guess how your uncle came to possess it, but the Ring is a thing of great evil and must be destroyed."  
  
"How?" There was a plaintive note to the halfling's whisper as he clutched at the chain that suddenly seemed so heavy around his neck.  
  
"If I recall what an elf-lord told me many, many years ago, it must be thrown into the Fires of Mount Doom, where it was forged." The ancient wizard offered Frodo a kind smile. "Please, think no more of the Ring. Simply bear it to Imladris, and then I and others will find a way to venture to Mount Doom and destroy the Ring."  
  
Without awaiting a reply, Gandalf turned towards Sam, who was still enthralled by the sound of Legolas' singing. "Samwise Gamgee, have you never heard an elven song before?"  
  
Wide-eyed, Sam shook his head, sending grimy brown curls every which way. "Nay, Master Gandalf. Elves never visited the Shire, though I recollect Mister Frodo's uncle being one to wander o'er the hills. It was rumored he made friends with elves." The halfling's voice grew slightly wistful as he pictured the green magnificence that had been his home.  
  
"And then the Big Folk came, and the Shire was no more," murmured Frodo, his eyes downcast.  
  
"Mithrandir!" The delighted shout of the wizard's name seemed to come from all sides, followed by various shouts in the Sindarin language as Sam gazed around in wonder at the numerous elves that had silently appeared at the edge of the clearing, all beaming and laughing.  
  
"Cormamin lindua ele lle!" [My heart sings to see thee!]  
  
"Creoso, mellonamin!" [Welcome, my friend!]  
  
"Mithrandir, an lema?" [Mithrandir, long journey?]  
  
As the two halflings gawked at the numerous, beautiful elves, all of them flocked around Gandalf, smiling and chattering away in Sindarin while the ancient wizard chuckled and responded in Sindarin.  
  
"Little ones, I offer my apologies that none of my brethren have greeted you." Sam and Frodo glanced up to see Legolas smiling gently at them. "Mithrandir is renowned by all elves, and it is a momentous occasion that he is here. Come, I shall take you and Mithrandir to my father. He will be eager to meet you."  
  
At that point, Frodo's stomach rumbled, and Legolas' smile was replaced by a quizzical look. "Did, did you make that noise?" Again, his naiveté was revealed by the slight uncertainty in his melodious words.  
  
"Halflings make that noise when they are hungry, Prince Legolas!" declared one of the other elves with laughter in his clear tenor voice as the prince arched an eyebrow. "You have simply never heard it because no elf goes hungry in Mirkwood."  
  
"It is an odd noise, but I suppose it is important to know when one is hungry. I wonder if we elves would make that noise if our stomachs were empty," mused the prince before smiling once more. "Come, my halfling friends, to the court of Thranduil!"  
  
Several of the other immortals rallied to the declaration, and began to sing a melodious song about the mighty elf-lord of Mirkwood even as Legolas led the two hobbits and the Grey Wanderer in the direction of his father's hall.  
  
-*-*-*-*-*-  
  
Sam's eyes were as wide as they could possibly be as his green gaze flickered around the Great Hall. The large room was enormous, and the hobbit felt tiny compared to the tall, graceful elves who sat comfortably in chairs of finest silk.  
  
Above all the rest sat an elf who could be no other than King Thranduil, Legolas' father. His keen eyes focused on the guests, and a warm smile graced his lips as he rose elegantly from his golden chair.  
  
**"Well, my son, do my ancient eyes deceive me, or is that my good friend Mithrandir?"** His clear, baritone words filled everyone's ears, and Gandalf chuckled in response.  
  
**"Excuse me for speaking out of turn, good king, but your eyes do not deceive you. I am back from my travels, Thranduil, and I greet you!"**  
  
With a joyous cry, the elf-lord sprang across the room in what seemed like three bounds. Golden waves pressed against frizzy gray as the two friends embraced and began to babble in Sindarin for a few minutes.  
  
Legolas smiled as he watched his father chuckle over long-forgotten matters with his old friend before the blue-eyed elf turned his gaze upon the hobbits, who had been overlooked once more. "I am sorry, little ones. Once the shock at seeing Mithrandir has worn off, my kin and companions will welcome you. Come; sit with me by my father's throne. My siblings are not here at the moment, so we have many extra spaces at the high table." He laughed softly, and accidentally slipped into Sindarin as he waved a casual hand. "Tolo, mado a sogo en mereth!" [Come, eat and drink of the feast!]  
  
Even as Sam squirmed self-consciously at the thought of being above all the elves, Legolas ushered him and Frodo towards the table that he had been speaking of, eagerly telling them about the meal that they'd soon devour.  
  
In truth, it was quite a few minutes until Gandalf and Thranduil remembered that they were in the company of countless others. Apologizing, the king of Mirkwood clapped his hands and called for the feast to begin.  
  
"This is one of my favorite dishes," Legolas exclaimed as soon as the first platter was brought out, a smile spreading across his fair visage. "You'll enjoy the apples, especially with the secret spices that the cooks put upon them."  
  
As Sam smiled back and tentatively took a bite of the spiced fruit, a thought began to wiggle in the back of his mind. The hobbit's smile widened even as the spices burst upon his tongue as the former gardener heard Frodo, his tone no longer melancholy but delighted, declaring that this was wonderful. Pale green eyes flickered around the room at the assorted elves, and Samwise Gamgee gradually realized something....  
  
Legolas was the most beautiful elf there.  
  
Even when compared to the other attractive elves, his golden tendrils were shades glossier, his eyes a more brilliant sapphire, his visage the epitome of delicate splendor, his frame nimbler and more graceful. The only elf close to comparison was Legolas' father, and even then Thranduil's good looks were more along the lines of handsome rather than lovely.  
  
"Do your siblings look anything like you?" Sam inquired, smiling up at the golden elf as he nibbled on another slice of fruit.  
  
Legolas looked thoughtful. "No, they take after my father. I take after my mother. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Oh, I was just wondering," declared the hobbit, flushing a little and pretending to concentrate on the fruit he was eating so that he could avoid the elf's curious gaze.  
  
Legolas' eyes lingered on Sam for another moment, before a carefree smile curved his lips once more. "Please, have some of the wine. It will lessen any of your weariness from running away from those humans." Disdain lingered in that final word, for all Mirkwood elves held the race of Man in contempt.  
  
Pale green orbs brightened at that. "I've not had wine since the last celebration before Men took the Shire from us," Sam sighed, his longing obvious. Of course, the elven wine wouldn't be anything like the Shire wine, but perhaps it would be wonderful in its own way.  
  
The smile widened at that, becoming kinder. "Then I must insist that you sample some of Mirkwood's wine. We are renowned for it."  
  
Sam smiled. "Well, if you insist. Master Frodo, try some of the Mirkwood wine with me!"  
  
"All right, Sam, all right," laughed his fellow hobbit, looking the merriest he had since they had been enslaved and Bilbo murdered in front of them.  
  
The kind look never leaving his beautiful visage, Legolas poured them both a glass of wine.  
  
The color of the drink was a pale cerise, the same color as prizewinning roses that Sam had grown back at the Shire. Green eyes gazed at the sparkling liquid for a moment, and then the round-faced halfling lifted the drink to his lips, offering Frodo a smile.  
  
His normally grim companion grinned back, and in his heart, Samwise Gamgee silently rejoiced before he took a long draught of Mirkwood wine. They would soon be rid of that cursed ring and be able to live their lives free once again.  
  
He took a sip, and immediately froze in place. The wine was like nothing Sam had ever sampled before! It slid like fire down his throat, but it was an inferno that didn't burn his gullet. Instead it left him breathless, tears springing to his eyes as he gasped. The warmth traveled down his throat and spread through his entire frame. With that painless heat came newfound strength, and Sam sat upright, blinking away tears.  
  
"Perhaps it is a bit too powerful for hobbits," Legolas commented, looking a trifle amused. "I shall add some juice to the wine and see if that lessens the intensity."  
  
"That sounds—sounds good," said Frodo, wheezing a little as he rubbed his throat. Still, there was a slight smile on the hobbit's face, and he seemed to regain lost energy in his formerly weary expression and stature even as Sam watched his friend.  
  
The vigor that the wine had instilled in the round-faced halfling made him sit up straighter and glance around. He smiled at the sight of the cheerful, laughing elves, and relaxed in the chair as Legolas diluted the Mirkwood wine. Sam rather thought that he could spend months here in Mirkwood, among the merry elves. He would have to suggest to Mister Frodo that they come and visit once they had taken that ring to Imladris....  
  
-*-*-*-*-*-  
  
**"Whatever are we to do, Mithrandir?"** Sitting upon his throne of gold, surrounded by his adoring subjects, Thranduil had never felt so weak. He kept the smile up for appearances, but his voice was heavy with despair as he spoke in quiet Sindarin. **"Are we to drop this burden into Elrond's lap and let him deal with it as he sees fit?"**  
  
**"I am afraid that is the only way I can see the Ring not being lost yet again, my old friend. Elrond was at the battle that was the last alliance of men and elves. He was a companion of Gil-galad and a friend to Isildur. Elrond will know how to perform the mighty task of destroying the Ruling Ring and casting Sauron from this world at last."** Mithrandir's words were gentle but firm.  
  
The king of Mirkwood couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lips. The immortality that would keep him young and beautiful forever was suddenly mocking him. What use was it to live forever if the world was enslaved by the darkness that was Sauron? **"Then I shall assign my most powerful warriors to take you and your halfling companions to Imladris."**  
  
The wizard shook his hoary mane in a mild dismissal of the elf's words. **"Nay, my friend, I do not think that would be wise. Your warriors are renowned, and there are spies everywhere once we leave the safe realm of Mirkwood. A spy might suspect something if they see the fabled guards of Mirkwood accompanying what appears to be merely two halflings and an old man. Let me speak to Radagast the Brown tomorrow; we shall think of a way to get young Frodo and young Samwise to Imladris posthaste and safely."**  
  
Thranduil took a long sip of his wine to steady himself before he spoke again. **"Is there /any/ way I can be of service to you, Mithrandir? I would dearly love to aid in the destruction of the Ring, for my part, and I know that all the elves of Mirkwood would consign themselves to death if it meant Sauron was destroyed."**  
  
**"Thank you, Thranduil, I shall hold you to that once I have spoken with Radagast. For the moment, let us try to enjoy the feast and speak of other times. Have you spoken to anyone from Lothlorien lately?"**  
  
**"Nay, I have not heard from the Golden Woods for nigh on twenty years. I do not worry though. They have never been ones to stray far from the beautiful lady Galadriel,"** the elf-lord commented, relaxing a little as they steered the topic away from Sauron and doom.  
  
**"Aye, that they haven't,"** Mithrandir agreed, and lifted his own drink to his lips and taking a sip before the Istari suddenly coughed, his visage flushing a dark red. The Grey Wanderer blinked rapidly get be rid of the tears that had sprung to his eyes. **"I—I'd forgotten how strong your wine was, my friend,"** he whispered with a hoarse note to his voice, a hand reaching up to massage his throat. **"Do you have any juice to reduce the power of Mirkwood wine?"**  
  
Thranduil laughed at that, feeling his spirits lighten at the other man's reaction to the drink. **"I had forgotten that even Istari cannot stand the intensity of Mirkwood wine,"** he commented even as he reached for a flagon of berry juice.  
  
**"No one can stand the intensity of Mirkwood wine save for the Mirkwood elves, good Thranduil,"** retorted Mithrandir.  
  
Of course, the elf-lord couldn't argue with him, for the Grey Wanderer was, as usual, right.  
  
-*-*-*-*-*-  
  
Even the diluted wine seemed to be too strong for the hobbits, and as the evening wore on, their cheeks flushed more and more. Still, their speech remained clear and without a slurred note. After all, while Mirkwood wine was strong, all hobbits were born and raised on Old Toby and the various alcohols of the Shire.  
  
Nevertheless, they spoke more freely than they probably would have had not they supped some of the elven wine. Sam regaled Legolas with tales of the Shire before Men had seized it, and Frodo interjected if Sam forgot to mention something. For his part, the blond elf listened intently and laughed in all the right places, drinking his wine without any side effects at all. When the hobbits were almost hoarse, it was the elf's turn to entertain them with stories of Mirkwood.  
  
Eventually, however, the energy instilled in them from the wine faded and the fact that they'd been on the run caught up with the two halflings. First Frodo and then Sam's head began to nod as Legolas' voice washed over them, his lilting syllables almost lullaby-like to the heavy-eyed hobbits.  
  
Frodo was the first to succumb to his weariness, his head finally ending in a half-nod which resulted in his chin resting on his chest. His intense blue eyes were hidden from Middle-Earth as his heavy eyelids closed, and the young hobbit dreamed of the Shire when it had been untainted.  
  
Sam fell victim to his drowsiness second, his head tilting a little towards Legolas as if leaning closer to listen as his eyes fluttered shut and he began to dream of cultivating Bag End's garden.  
  
The elf realized that he had lost his audience only when the green-eyed hobbit gave a contented little sigh. Legolas looked a little puzzled before he leaned closer and noticed the steady rise and fall of the hobbits' chests. Then his sapphire eyes widened with understanding, and the prince smiled, amused.  
  
**"I'd forgotten that only the elves sleep with their eyes open, Elanor,"** he commented to one of younger Mirkwood elves at the table just below him.  
  
The elf's eyes, which were the same hue as amber extracted from a tree, danced amidst his pale flesh as he glanced up at the sovereign. **"With due respect, Prince Legolas, it's been said that Mithrandir keeps his eyes open as well. I wonder if that is true?"**  
  
The two friends shared a conspiratorial look, and soon Prince Legolas and Elanor began to scheme to try and figure out if the rumor was factual.  
  
(To be continued.  
  
Preludes: In the next chapter, The Gondorian Horsemen and their halfling companion travel towards Imladris with many adventures on their way, and Hirgon reaches Edoras to speak with Éomer and Faramir.  
  
~Cinaed) 


End file.
